


Bleed into You

by edelweissroses



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Artist Newt Scamander, Bat! Pickett, Blood Drinking, Classic Dracula Powers, Human/Vampire Relationship, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Vampire Credence Barebone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2019-09-13 11:55:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16892127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edelweissroses/pseuds/edelweissroses
Summary: Credence Barebone is a young vampire by undead standards. At a hundred and twenty-six years old, he has learned to control his thirst through a mixture of careful planning, drinking enough blood that wouldn't be missed from his unsuspecting victims, and patience. Lots and lots of patience. That is, until one night, it all went wrong.Having to flee the only home he's ever known, Credence finds shelter in the home of one Newt Scamander, a budding artist who had moved to Florence to pursue his dreams of becoming an accomplished painter. Through each other, will they learn what it truly means to be alive ? Or will their relationship end in fire and blood ? Renaissance Vampire Crewt! AU.





	1. Sunday Bloody Sunday

Newton Artemis Fido Scamander was twenty-six years old when he’d first left home.

Newt loved the countryside. He loved the rolling hills. He loved the flowers blooming in the spring. He loved the tall trees looming over him and the grass underneath his feet. He loved bringing the harvest to the village market. He loved the cathedral and the people walking through the streets. All were subjects of his paintings and yet… there was a hunger burning inside him.

A hunger for something _more._

Newt could never be satisfied being cooped up in the attic bedroom, sketching the spiders and owls living upon the beams. Not to say that he didn’t love Aristotle and Plato or Hoo and Hootie, but he needed to leave.

It didn’t mean he would never come back.

Whenever he’d voiced these feelings to his parents, however. . . well, they were less understanding than Aristotle and Plato or Hoo and Hootie. They pleaded for Newt to remain. Cordelia and Griffin Scamander were getting old and Theseus, beloved and capable as he was, wasn’t enough to keep the farm running. Newt needed to stop chasing foolish dreams. Greatness was never meant for peasants.

These nightly events often left Newt running through the back door. He’d take to the fields, finding comfort laying against the warm bellies of Pistachio and Persimmon the cows. Sometimes he’d find himself fleeing towards the pond. He’d curl his legs against his chest and watch the newborn ducklings following their mother through the softly swaying reeds.

Theseus always ended up fetching him an hour later.

Newt always returned.

Cordelia always wrapped him up in her arms.

Griffin always pleaded for one more year.

But Newt knew that if he stayed any longer, even for one more simple harvest, he would never leave this place. He would die here without ever knowing what laid beyond their tiny little spot in the world.

Something squeaked, pulling him away from his thoughts.

“Oh, don’t you fuss now, Pickett,” Newt murmured fondly and hoisted the covered cage onto the wagon seat.

He peeked through the curtain and grinned apologetically at the fussing bat glaring out from within. His shredded wing looked like it was healing quite well. The poor creature would never fly again, but, at the very least, he wouldn’t be suffering anymore.

Newt grabbed his insect jar from the bottom of the wagon and pulled out a large, juicy moth that he’d caught the night prior. He tossed it through the cage bars. Pickett quickly snatched it up, and greedily chittered for more.

“That’s more than enough for now,” Newt tutted, lowering the blanket back over, “I’ll feed you again when we stop for the night.”

An annoyed squeak came in response.

“Rude.”

Newt placed his hands against his hips and looked over the cart.

Everything he needed was already covered in blankets and fastened with rope: enough food and water to last the journey, an old trunk that he’d traded three paintings for, plenty of hay, a couple of valuables stuffed here and there to distract looters from the ones he truly valued, and other little necessities too.

His heart pounded inside his chest. His hands shook. The blazing hunger inside his belly grew stronger and stronger with each passing second.

It was time.

Cordelia wailed on the front porch, clinging onto Griffin for support. Theseus stood nearby.

“I—uhm,” Newt began awkwardly, averting his gaze, “Suppose I’ll be heading out now.”

“Newton,” Cordelia choked, wrenching him forward into a suffocating embrace, “My dear heart… you don’t have to go. Stay. We’ll—We’ll buy you another canvas next season, and that new yellow paint you’ve been eyeing! I’ll weave more baskets. I’ll tailor more dresses. I’ll—”

“Oh, Mum…”

Before he knew it, Newt was burying his face into her shoulder, unable to hold back the tears he’d tried so desperately to keep hidden.

He hated hugs. He avoided them like the plague.

But… he was _leaving._

He didn’t know when he’d see her again.

Both of them trembled, neither one wanting to let go.

Until a hand squeezed his shoulder.

“We can’t stop him, Delia,” Griffin murmured, “He needs this.”

Newt’s head whirled up.

Griffin Scamander had always been protective of his youngest son’s kind and gentle heart. Growing up, he had always kept a strong hand on Newt’s shoulder, pulling him against his hip whenever they brought their newest harvest to the market. He’d tell him bedtimes stories, warning of the beasts and monsters that lurked about in the dead of night. He told of the cruelty of men laying just beyond their village. Newt needed to always keep his wits about him, lest he end up like poor old man Abernathy.

“We’d always known this day was coming,” Griffin said, “Our boy—He was always destined for something bigger than us. Got an explorer’s heart, that one does. Remember when he used to chase the horizon just to see where the moon goes?”

Newt’s lower lip trembled.

Griffin met his eye.

“You’re going to be great, son.”

Cordelia released him, burying her face into Griffin’s chest instead. Newt turned away and swiped at his bleary eyes.

He loved his family. They might not have understood one another. They might have fought. They may have wept. But, one thing was certain about them: they _cared_. Their love ran deep and there was nothing in the whole wide world that could change that.

Theseus stepped forward.

Neither one spoke. They weren’t good at expressing their feelings for one another, Newt especially; however, when Theseus’s hands balled into trembling fists, Newt pulled him into his arms.

Theseus clung onto him. Newt could feel every muscle in his body shaking.

“Be careful, Newt,” he whispered into his ear, “The world isn’t ready for you.”

Theseus ruffled his brother’s hair, messing up it up even more than before, and nodded his head towards the cart.

“Show them otherwise.”

Newt grinned.

He dashed to the wagon. He lumbered over the back, hopped down into the driver’s seat, and wrapped the leather reins thrice around his wrists. The horses jolted forwards.

For the last time in what was going to be, perhaps, many years, Newt turned around and looked back at his family.

At his home.

At all the memories he was leaving behind.

“I’ll send word as soon as I make it to Florence. I’ll be back, don’t you worry!” Newt called out,” Theseus, be sure to feed the owls in the attic!”

The cattle roaming the pastures lifted their heads, as if noticing his departure and knowing that this was different from his usual hour-long trips into town. The cows stomped their hooves into the ground. The goats bucked in their pens. The pigs snorted and squealed in a frenzy.

The ducks abandoned their pond and waddled beside the wagon as it rolled down the road, chasing after him as if they too didn’t want Newt to leave.

His heart lurched.

But Newt couldn’t stop now.

He righted himself in his seat and faced the open road. Wild determination blazed in Newt’s eyes and a wicked smile spread across his trembling lips.

He was going to Florence.

And he was going to finally show the world all that he had to offer.

 

* * *

 

_10 years later_

A shared shiver passed through the sleeping city. The evening winds brought a foreboding chill into the air, the clouded skies and choking thickness foretelling of imminent turmoil.

It was quiet.

Far too quiet for it to be associated with any natural cause. Neither crickets chirped nor wolves howled at the glowing moon. It was as if both predator and prey were in agreement tonight. It was if they knew exactly what far deadlier beast lurked in the shadows.

Credence stalked the streets of Florence.

He pulled his velvet-lined cloak tighter around his burning throat and ducked into a shadowed alleyway. He passed shrines and painted frescoes, all depicting saints and martyrs and all those that had forsaken beasts like him.

Credence collapsed.

Forced unto his scarred hands and knees as he quivered, the blood sloshing around in his belly and the hunger snarling for more.

He lifted his gaze.

The Cathedral loomed before him. The combined works of architectural masters Brunelleschi and Giotto, di Cambio and Talenti, had been hundreds of years in the making; finally, it had seen its long-awaited completion. Were they all not dead in the ground, they’ve would’ve been proud at what they’d created.

It made Credence feel small.

Powerless.

And for a being with near limitless power, that was quite the achievement.

Hellfire scorched through his veins. His pointed fangs pulsed wickedly behind his opened mouth. His long fingers sunk into the cobblestone floor, as if it were made of liquid not stone, and his nails curled into sharpened claws. They lengthened, turning black and beastly as the thirst grew into a raging inferno.

As if he needed any reminder as to what he must do.

There had been only one victim on this cold, unforgiving night.

A poor, unsuspecting drunkard having left the pub mere moments before stumbling straight into Credence’s waiting arms. Credence had left him alive, of course. It was as he always did with his donors. He would take enough blood that wouldn’t be missed and leave them sleeping on the curb, a silver coin slipped into their pockets in return for a service they would never remember.

Credence wasn’t a killer.

And it was because of his good heart and all-too-human conscience that he was suffering at this very moment.

He needed at least a dozen blood donors every night to keep not just the thirst at bay but to prevent any needless suffering.

And he had only managed to find  _one_  tonight.

Fueled by desperation, Credence raised his nose to the wind and _breathed_.

There.

His body collapsed into a crawling mist, slinking through the curved streets and edged alleyways until he was nearly halfway across the city right beside his crypt.

Perfect.

He could quickly feed and then escape to his sanctuary before the first morning light hit. The hunger would be unforgivable by the morrow; but he would just have to endure it and be extra careful during his next hunt.

Credence reformed behind the marled wood of an ancient olive tree. It had existed in the graveyard long before he’d started haunting it. It’d likely still be there long after he was gone.

He ran his claws down the thick trunk, pulling himself around until he spotted his second and final victim of the evening.

A mourner knelt beside a grave, weeping into a handkerchief.

Credence looked away.

Alessandra De Luca.

Recently widowed.

He had known her great-grandparents in life. Kind bakers who had lived down the street from where he’d lived. They’d offered him a fresh loaf of ciabatta and a warm bed whenever he was forced onto the streets, thrown out by Mother for anything as innocuous as failing to put the dishes away just right. They were a lovely family and Alessandra had inherited their kindness.

She didn’t deserve this tragedy; the one she had already endured and the one that was yet to come.

Credence stepped forward.

Taking the blood of a grieving woman whose family had showed him nothing but hospitality when he had been alive and human was a new low for him. But alas, it was either this or go the rest of the night hungry.

“ _Come to me._ ”

Alessandra froze. Eyes of burnt caramel widening and sobs disappearing. She turned her head, making eye contact with Credence’s glowing red gaze across the graveyard.

“ _That’s right_ ,” his normally soft and soothing voice slipped into melodic hypnosis with practiced ease, “ _I mean you no harm, dear one. Come. Let me comfort you._ ”

He outstretched his clawed hand, twitching with thirst and shame.

Alessandra picked herself up and obediently crossed the distance.

Closer and closer she approached, her young heart beating so rapidly against her ribcage that Credence could hear nothing else save for that beautiful music of youthful vitality. Her warm hand slipped into his cold one.

He pushed away her thick curls from her neck.

“ _There you are_ ,” Credence pressed his lips against her throbbing artery, practically salivating from his sinful gluttony, “ _Forget your troubles. I’m here now. No more pain, only ecstasy._ ”

He sank his fangs into her flesh.

Credence felt Alessandra gasp; and, one quick thought from him magically transformed pain and fear into splendor.

He felt ashamed doing this: _feeding_. Taking the blood of an unsuspecting soul had always filled him with such crippling contrition.

When he had been five years turned, his despair had nearly led him straight into the priest’s confessional. The bodies had piled. Death had stunk the air. The blood of his victims had stained his hands so red the Credence had found himself scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing just to be clean; but, no matter how hard he’d tried, he couldn’t be gone of that wretched spot.

He’d found himself unable to take it anymore.

He had become a monster.

He had just wanted to… end.

It was when he’d been just about to enter the cathedral that Credence first learned that he could hypnotize people. He could end their struggling and erase their memories. He had the power to replace their pain with pleasure.

From that night forward, Credence had become but a ghost, haunting the candlelit streets of Florence.

Thousands of memories erased. So much more blood taken. And he had continued this way for over a century.

A satisfied groan rocked through him as Alessandra’s blood flowed into his waiting mouth. The sweet elixir soothed his burning throat and quenched his thirst. Well, as much as it could given the circumstances.

Credence sank his claws into his wrist, controlling the famished beast within him. He began counting in his head to thirty so that he could break away before he took too much. He hadn’t killed anyone in ninety-five years and he certainly wasn’t going to start now.

10, 11, 12…

“Halt! Who goes there?”

Credence ripped away from his victim’s throat, quickly running his tongue across the wound so that it would heal.

A ferocious snarl curled his blood-stained lips as he whirled upon the stranger, dressed head-to-toe in black. Judging by the accent and overall appearance, he wasn’t from around here. German perhaps? It didn’t matter.

Credence was just about to hypnotize him and make him forget everything he saw when the man-in-black thrust a handful of garlic blossoms into his face.

Credence slammed his hands against his mouth and nose, his eyes watering with blood-red tears. He screamed in inhuman anguish and burst into a hundred bats.

He flew anxiously through the skies, not knowing where he was going except far away from the graveyard.

It was almost morning and Credence couldn’t return to his crypt, no matter how close it was. It wasn’t worth the risk of the man-in-black finding him and pressing a stake through his heart. No, Credence needed to get out of here, find shelter for the day, and maybe clean up this horrendous mess by the following evening.

_Damnit damnit damnit damnit!_

He had been so careful; and, now, he might have to leave the only home he had ever known.

Thunder boomed menacingly over him and lightning crashed through the clouds. The rain fell in massive sheets, hindering Credence’s frenzied flight.

He pushed forward.

A thousand tiny wings flew through the last throes of night, hundreds of eyes searched in all directions for someplace safe to hide.

He soon reached the outskirts of town where wilderness overtook everything touched by man. Well,  _almost_ everything.

A stone tower loomed in the distance; a magnificent opened window larger than most doors faced the far-off city.

The colony of bats coalesced and Credence slammed into the wall underneath, claws slinking into rain-slicked rock. He hoisted himself up and up and up until he hooked an arm around the window. He pulled himself into his newfound sanctuary—

Only to come face-to-face with a man with eyes the most vibrant shade of green he’d ever seen.

Both men froze.

Until Newt Scamander, the not-quite-so-famous painter, screwed on the lid to the jar he’d been holding, having apparently been in the process of catching mosquitos, or something equally bizarre, before he’d been interrupted.

Credence blinked.

The man moved to set the jar on the nearby table.

But given by how his  _gorgeous_  green eyes never left Credence’s, he missed.

Before Credence could consciously think about what he was doing, he bolted forward at speeds nowhere even near human in nature and grabbed it before it could shatter.

He moved away empty tubes of paint and set it firmly on the table.

Credence turned back around.

The painter’s mouth hung wide open. He rubbed slowly — thoughtfully — at his chin as he looked Credence up and down.

Clothes drenched with rain, blood staining his mouth, eyes wide and afraid.

Looking like a  _monster._

Credence reached out, prepared to hypnotize this poor, unfortunate soul into keeping him safe and guarded until first moon’s light—

“Beautiful,” Newt whispered.

Credence hesitated.

The painter slipped his warm, wonderful hand into his, mistaking his offered hand as a greeting. He leaned in close enough that Credence could feel his breath ghosting across his cheek and grinned with the dazzling intensity of a thousand stars bursting into supernova.

“May I paint you?”


	2. What Fears are Made Of

Credence didn’t know what to say.

Now, he was over a hundred and twenty-six years old. That much went without question. But, that didn’t necessarily mean that he suffered from the ailments of old age. Vampirism and immortality sort of went, well… hand-in-hand that way, so to speak. So, it wasn’t as if his hearing regularly played tricks on him.

But that could be the only explanation for what he’d just heard. It had to be, because the painter couldn’t have seriously asked—

“Come, come now. Let’s get you inside.”

Newt dragged him along by the hand further into the studio.

He pushed Credence down onto a wooden stool and removed the sodden cloak from around his shoulders, leaving him solely in his death-day clothes.

“Bugger, you’re just soaked to the bone, aren’t you?” Newt frowned.

He casually leaned forward, pressing his positively  _blazing_ hand against Credence’s pale forehead.

“Freezing too. We’ll get you warmed up in a jiffy, okay?” his voice dropped, soft and thoughtful, “Oh, but what lovely iridescence the raindrops make though. They hit the light just right. And your eyes…”

Credence looked up at him.

Newt’s breath caught in his throat.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

After a moment, Newt pulled his hand away from Credence’s forehead. His skin felt even colder than before.

Credence absently pressed his fingertips against the ghosts of his, watching the manic painter scurrying through the studio. Chaotic determination blazed in Newt’s eyes.

He nearly tripped not once, not twice, but three times in rapid succession of each other; and, yet, not even such _honestly ridiculous_ plights of clumsiness seemed to hinder him.

When he stumbled over his feet for yet a fourth time within the past minute, Newt caught himself on a free-standing coat rack and placed Credence’s rain-soaked cloak upon the metal hook.

Credence silently cast his gaze around the room.

A perfect circle, the studio was.

Every inch of the space was covered in canvases. Some were stacked. Some were leaned against each other. Some were blank, and some were of the most stunning art Credence had ever seen—some completed and some barely even begun.

There were frescoes painted into the plaster, picture-perfect renderings of the city outside. Palettes caked with flaking paint and leather aprons, large enough that even _Credence_ could wear them, were tossed over every space not occupied by tubes of unmixed pigments and brush-cluttered glasses of murky water.

Credence thumbed through the nearest stack of paintings.

Nude studies of the human form. Hard-working, muscled women carrying children upon their hips and sacks of flour across their shoulders. Seated men, burdened with decades of weary knowledge, with their wrinkled skin and beards turned gray.

Landscapes of misty mountains. Mystical grottoes with glowing turquoise waters, clear enough to make out the artist’s reflection. Gardens bursting with flowers in every color under the sun. Rivers of shimmering stone and bubbling brooks so real that Credence wanted to jump inside for a swim.

He knew Florence like the back of his hand.

Which meant he could say, without a doubt, that these were portraits of places and people from beyond.

Something within him  _burned._

But, for once, it wasn’t his thirst.

“A-ha!” Newt suddenly cried triumphant, stumbling out of a mountainous horde of still-life materials.

Credence flitted back onto the wooden stool, scarred hands placed firmly on his knees as if he hadn’t moved an inch.

He blinked.

Why did he do that?

Newt came running over with the dopiest grin Credence had ever seen in his hundred plus years of life and thrust into his arms a wicker basket filled to the brim with fruit.

 “Hold this, won’t you?” Newt turned around a red-skinned apple and threw a rotted blueberry behind his shoulder, “Don’t know how I missed that. Anyways! Don’t move. The lighting is still ideal enough for—wait.”

Newt lifted Credence’s pointed chin with more tenderness than he had ever known in life and froze.

Their eyes met for one electric moment.

“There you are,” Newt breathed.

His fingers trailed delicately across the sharpened edges of Credence’s jaw, regarding him as if he were a living masterpiece instead of a bloodthirsty beast. It made him feel almost… human.

Almost.

Until Newt pulled away and those very same fingers that had worshipped had come back _stained._

Credence narrowed his eyes.

“Fool.”

Newt pulled back.

“I beg your pardon?”

Credence leaned forward, speaking slowly as if he were addressing a child.

“Haven’t you realized what I am?”

“Oh!”

Newt’s eyes widened with delight and clapped his hands together.

“Is that what you were worried about? I figured out what you were from the moment I’d invited you in,” he grinned, “A vampire, yes? No mortal person could climb up my window like that let alone in the middle of the night during the rainiest month of the year. And taking into account all the blood too. Which leads me to the question—”

Newt placed his hands upon Credence’s shoulders, closing the distance between them until they almost nose-to-nose.

“Were all those bats outside you?”

Credence flinched.

“They were, weren’t they!” Newt beamed, “How fascinating. Are you able to switch your forms at will? Can you speak with other bats while you’re like that? Oh, you really got my Pickett all into a fluster, you did. See, that’s why I was catching all those mosquitos—”

“You—you trunk of _wriggling earthworms.”_

Credence snarled and flung the basket onto the ground.

Channeling his inner monster, he pinned Newt down against the hardwood floor. Credence’s long black hair cascaded down his shoulders, enshrouding them in a curtain of darkness where nothing else existed except one another.

The vampire opened his mouth wide, baring large, pointed fangs designed for one thing and one thing only: to rip and to tear into flesh.

“You trust so easily, little one,” he growled in a voice that was anything but human.

Credence slipped his clawed hand around Newt’s reddened throat. He pressed the blackened tips against his skin, but not to the point of drawing blood. Not yet.

Not ever.

“You know what I am and yet… you invite me inside regardless. You welcome me into your home. You show me hospitality. You treat me like you would any other guest, asking for nothing more than to paint my image,” he laughed darkly and leaned closer, “What sort of fool welcomes the stalking wolf into their parlor knowing full well that, by the end of the night, they will be devouring their flesh? Do you desire death? Is that it?”

Newt’s eyes were wide, panicked. He quivered beneath him. His heart thumped rapidly behind his chest.

Good.

He ought to be afraid.

Because if Credence had been afraid a hundred years ago… had he run in the opposite direction instead of having extended his hand to help a stranger in need, then perhaps he wouldn’t be here as he was now.

Credence forced Newt’s head to the side and lowered his mouth to his neck.

“I could make it quick, you know. I could suck you dry and make you enjoy every minute of your death. Would you like that, hmm?” he murmured, piercing his claws into the palm of his free hand in a show of sheer self-restraint, “Experiencing pleasures you’ve never before dreamed, fulfilling desires beyond your wildest of imaginations before you die.”

He was so  _thirsty._

“Or I could make it painful,” Credence lowered his voice, “I could rip out your throat _right now._ I could bathe in the blood spurting from your neck. No one would find you out here until I was long gone.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

Newt spoke softly, calmer than what his body betrayed.

Credence sneered.

“And what makes you think that?”

“Because you’re shaking.”

Credence pulled back.

And to his horror, he found that Newt was _right._

That frightened trembling that he had associated with his hapless host hadn’t come from Newt at all, but from himself.

Credence released Newt’s neck and brought his hands to his eyes, watching every tremor coursing through them.

Newt reached up and pressed his fingers against Credence’s wet cheek.

“Such sad eyes you have,” Newt said quietly, “From the moment I first looked into them, they were drawing me in. Haunting. Desperate. Afraid. You’ve never known anything except the cruelties of this world, haven’t you?”

“I’m not,” Credence’s voice warbled, “Scared.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Credence’s vision blurred scarlet.

Before he knew what was happening, he was crying into Newt’s tunic—clawed hands curled into the fabric and face buried into his chest. How pathetic was he? Crying in the arms of a stranger he’d only met mere minutes ago?

“Shh,” Newt drove the final nail in the proverbial coffin and rubbed his hand down his back, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Credence crumpled.

A broken sob ripped from his throat, weighted with a century’s worth of loneliness and pain.

“I’m sorry.  _I’m so sorry_.”

How long had it been since he’d known the touch of a compassionate hand? How long had it been since someone had joined him in the darkness? How long had it been since he’d been treated like a human being? How long had it been since he’d had an actual conversation?

Credence was scared.

Scared of discovery. Scared of hurting someone, or killing them. Scared of himself.

“I’ve been recognized,” he choked out, “Even the slightest suspicion is too much of a chance for me to take. If they discover my crypt—No. _I don’t want to die._ I need to leave. Oh merciful God, I’ve never left before. What am I to do? Where am I to go? Haven’t I been punished enough?”

His hands tightened.

“ _I’m so thirsty._ ”

“Stay.”

Credence lifted his head.

“I mean—What I meant to say was, you can stay here,” Newt continued awkwardly, chewing the inside of his lip, “There’s plenty of unoccupied space and, well, I wouldn’t mind having company for once. Well, human company.”

“I’m not human.”

“Oh,” Newt shrugged, “Offer is off the table then, I suppose.”

Much to his own surprise, Credence laughed.

The remaining tears in his eyes spilled over, staining his cheeks a darker shade of scarlet. Credence raised his hand over his mouth and sat beside Newt, pulling his knees against his chest.

Newt gave him a lopsided smile.

The bastard.

“Have you not eaten?”

“Pardon?”

“You said you were thirsty,” Newt leaned up, resting against the backs of his arms, “Does that mean you’ve haven’t eaten anything tonight? Erm, I suppose it’d be _anyone_ not _anything_ in this case now, wouldn’t it?”

Credence threw back his head and laughed. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back behind his ears.

“You’re a curious human,” Credence eventually managed to say once the giggles finally died down. He rested his cheek against his knees, folding his arms around his long legs.

“Inviting a vampire into your lovely home, requesting to paint them, making them _cry_ when they’re trying to scare some sense into you,” he nearly laughed again, “And now you ask if they’ve eaten tonight. Bold. Incredibly stupid, but bold.”

“You think my home is lovely?”

Credence snorted.

“Is that really all you’re taking from this?”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Newt answered with a little laugh, “You haven’t answered my question though.”

Credence averted his gaze.

“I’ve… fed, but not nearly enough to last. I’ll survive, rest assured. I’ll _always_ survive. However, the less I feed… the less of myself remains,” he pressed his knees further into his chest, “You might think me greedy. I like to think myself kind. I drink not from _one_ victim but _many._ I may feed off life, but that doesn’t mean that death has to be involved.”

He closed his eyes.

“So, I take a little blood from multiple donors as opposed to taking everything from one. Unfortunately, on nights like these, it… doesn’t work out exactly as I wish.”

Fingers brushed across his cheek.

“Could I help?”

Credence froze.

“Are you…” he swallowed, “…offering yourself to me?”

“Come, come now. What sort of host would I be if I didn’t provide for my guests,” Newt teased before adding genuinely, “No person, human or otherwise, standing under my roof goes hungry. It’s one of my rules.”

Credence stared at him out of the corner of his eyes.

“And what are the others?”

“Don’t drink out of the glasses that look like tea,” Newt wrinkled his nose, “I assure you, it’s not.”

Credence snorted.

“What a peculiar human,” he reached out and trailed a claw across the painter’s warm cheek, delighting in how quickly his skin flushed with blood, “I accept your offer.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Newt beamed, “Then, I suppose we should—”

“Ah,” Credence held up a finger, “I haven’t made my condition yet.”

“Condition?”

“Yes, condition,” he repeated and leaned closer, “Will you do me the honor of knowing your name?”

“I haven’t introduced myself?” that wonderful blush grew even deeper, “N—Newt Scamander, at your service. And what may I call you?”

“Credence.”

“Credence,” Newt repeated quietly, sending electric shivers down his spine, “Beautiful.”

Doubt, shame, and something else entirely swirled around his head. He found himself leaning closer and closer—

Until something prickled at his back.

Credence cast a worried glance over his shoulder, undead heart squeezing within his chest at the first sight of morning stretching through the open window.

Within a supernatural instant, he was on his feet.

“Where is your bedroom?”

Newt curiously followed his gaze and bounced upright in realization.

“Right! Yes, of course,” he pulled awkwardly at his collar, “It’s not exactly, erm, _dark_ down there. I could move the bed into the basement if you, ah, require it. Don’t want you catching on fire and all.”

Credence couldn’t help but smile.

“Vampires bursting aflame in sunlight is a grossly exaggerated falsehood. I don’t know how that rumor became so popular. We can walk in daylight just as easily as any mortal. We just tend to burn quicker,” he said, “Sleeping away the day is just a preference of mine.”

“Oh.”

Newt proceeded to lead him through the cluttered studio, stumbling once or twice over a misplaced paintbrush or whatnot, only for Credence to catch him by the back of his tunic midfall. When they finally reached the spiral staircase, Credence sighed and insisted on going first.

Newt, acting adorable or exasperatingly oblivious, voiced his protests until he promptly tipped over his two left feet straight into Credence’s open and waiting arms.

“How are you still alive?” Credence drawled, now carrying his gracious host downstairs.

“Pure, dumb luck?” Newt sheepishly offered.

“At this point, I’d be inclined to agree with you.”

Credence stepped out into the bedroom floor when Newt signaled with his hand that they’d arrived. He let him down from his arms.

He surveyed the mostly barren bedroom. It served as the complete contrast to the absolute anarchy going about upstairs. A few faded portraits lined the walls, interspersed with a couple of quiet village landscapes covered in dust and dirt. They were grimy and old, but…

Credence found them the most fascinating of all.

These were the artist’s private selection. These were the ones that he had chosen not to display amongst his masterpieces, but hung over his bed, close to his heart.

Speaking of which…

“Don’t tell me that’s where you sleep,” Credence gestured to the piles of hay, blankets, and patched-up pillows stuffed into the corner.

“It’s more comfortable than it looks,” Newt said.

“I could say the same about my coffin, but it doesn’t mean I _enjoy_ it.”

“If you’re going to complain, you could always just sleep somewhere else.”

“It’s perfect,” Credence hurriedly amended, “Innovative and frugal.”

“That’s better,” Newt laughed.

Credence swore that he had never heard a sound so lovely. Not even the church choirs of his youth could make themselves sound so—so—

So  _heavenly._

“Right,” Credence pulled at his collar. It was curious really. He’d been wearing the same exact outfit for the past century. Since when did it get so tight?

“If you wouldn’t mind then… would you lay down and make yourself comfortable,” he swallowed, “You’ll feel sleepy afterwards.”

“After…?”

“ _After._ ”

“O-oh,” Newt flushed.

He flopped down, nervously wringing his hands. Was he having second thoughts?

“Will it hurt?”

“I can make you feel whatever you want, Newt.”

Credence leaned down and slipped his long fingers underneath Newt’s chin, gently lifting it to better meet his gaze.

How ravishing Newt looked, regarding him with such widened eyes so full of life and vitality,

He loved how completely covered with freckles his face was, no matter how hidden they were from his flushed cheeks. He loved how his hair was just the perfect shade of auburn and how his lips parted as if he were preparing to speak but couldn’t find the right words. He loved how warm he was. He loved how he took his breath away.

Credence smoothed over his jaw with his clawed thumb.

His touch was… softer now. No longer did he pretend at cruelty. No longer did he play at a beast.

He was just Credence.

And he was afraid.

“You don’t have to do this if you’re having doubts,” he murmured, “I’ll hunt twice fold tomorrow evening.”

He didn’t remember the last time he’d drunk from someone with their conscious knowledge, let alone their permission.

“I’m not second-guessing myself,” Newt affirmed, “I’d just like to know what to expect.”

“No hesitations?”

“No hesitations.”

Newt sucked in a deep breath and turned his head to the side, baring his neck to him.

Credence practically salivated at the sight of his luscious artery pulsing underneath his skin. His thirst blazed anew inside his throat. He was so thirsty, _thirsty, thirsty—_

“You may proceed.”

Credence crawled over him properly now. Newt shivered; but his warm hand reached around his shoulders, encouraging him forward. And yet… Credence hesitated.

Their parted lips ghosted across each other, they were so close. Their breath, freezing cold and blazing hot, intermingled. Credence cupped Newt’s face between his hands and kissed him.

The world bloomed to life.

His hunger flickered. Not his thirst—no, that still burned white hot inside his throat. This was a different hunger entirely. It was a hunger of having been searching for something his entire life, but having no idea as to what… or _who._

When they parted, Newt’s face was flushed completely. His breathing had all but stopped.

Credence brushed his hair away from his forehead.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice slipping into something not quite hypnosis but something more. Something binding. Something ancient and divine.

“You will never know pain from my touch. You will never know anything but kindness from my hand. May Hell itself open up and swallow me whole should I ever incite terror within your heart,” Credence pressed their foreheads together.

He barely understood what he was saying. He wasn’t entirely sure _he_ was saying them at all.

But the words didn’t stop.

“I will stand beside you, my equal in every way. My powers, yours. Your happiness, mine. You will know my heart just as I will know yours,” he continued, “I will protect you just as you have protected me. All this I promise you. I, Credence Barebone, have become… _yours_.”

Credence sliced into his lower lip with his pointed teeth, just enough for a few drops of blood to bloom, and leaned down to Newt’s neck.

“And you have become mine, Newt Scamander.”

Credence sank his fangs into him and two worlds collided.

Everything that Newt felt, so did Credence.

Everything that Credence felt, so did Newt.

An eternity of loneliness exchanged for years of limitless curiosity. Memories of youth, of laughter and teary misunderstandings, of happiness and crippling despair, merging into one. Two souls having been whispering the same question their entire lives, finally knowing the answer.

Credence now recognized the portraits lining the walls.

Theseus Scamander, Newt’s older brother. Griffin and Cordelia, his parents.

The landscapes were where he had grown up. The farmhouse, his home.

Credence slipped their hands together, their lives entwining. Newt panted and gasped underneath him, his wide eyes turned to the cobwebbed ceiling before drifting down and, for the first time in forever, Credence saw _himself._

He froze.

He licked the wound closed, lifting his head to meet Newt’s eyes as if he were staring into a mirror.

_Such sad eyes you have._

Newt reached out and swept away the scarlet tears pouring down his cheek, his breath nothing more than a whisper.

“There you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //just an author’s clarification: Newt hasn’t been turned, just made into something like a familiar. He’s still very much human.


	3. An Undeadly Connection

Newt awoke to the sound of squeaking.

“Alright, alright,” he yawned, giving Pickett a gentle pat on the head, “I’ll feed you.”

Every muscle and bone in his body ached. It was strange, really. The last time he’d felt this sore, this exhausted, was way back when he’d been working on the family farm; but, he hadn’t done that in years. His body wasn’t made for that type of labor anymore.

Now, he would have loved for nothing more than to lounge in bed, unmoving, for the next couple hours with the curtains drawn and drowned underneath a sea of blankets. Perhaps if he just…pretended to fall back asleep…

Pickett screeched into his ear.

“I’m up, I’m up.”

Newt rubbed his eyes and hoisted himself up.

Only for his vision to blur into a swirling menagerie of blinding  _color_. He stumbled over his feet, holding Pickett protectively to his chest, and collided shoulder-first into the nearby wall.

Newt slumped onto his rear.

Strange.

He hadn’t remembered drinking last night. Or at any point during the last year and a half.

Pickett climbed onto his shoulder and squeaked loudly into his ear.

Newt clutched his head, a strangled cry catching in his throat. Since when did Pickett’s soft, adorable chirps sound like the striking gong of a thousand church bells?

Damned hangover.

Newt’s head pounded and  _pounded and pounded._

The lights seemed brighter. The sounds seemed louder. Everything and anything seemed all the more powerful and intense than usual.

Damned, wretched  _hangover._

“Where did I leave your jar?” Newt mumbled and gently plucked up Pickett, placing him into his hair, “Could’ve sworn I had it last night. Did I leave it in the— yes, I think I did.”

Newt carefully picked himself up and rubbed his aching neck.

Freezing at the two bumps underneath his fingertips.

No.

Impossible.

Newt slowly turned around, heart pumping rapidly in his chest.

And found Credence softly sleeping in his bed, curled into the tiniest corner.

Newt stumbled backwards and fell once more onto his rear.

All of the repeated jostling and tossing about sent Pickett into a chittering frenzy and yet… Newt paid no mind to him. Under more normal circumstances, the bat would’ve been practically smothered in attention. As of this moment, however, Newt found himself far too overwhelmed by the memories of everything that had come to pass the prior evening to give him what he wanted.

The storm that had come out of nowhere.

Pickett having been sent into a tizzy.

The unexpected guest that had crawled through his window.

The most sorrowful eyes he had ever seen.

Having been carried down into his bedroom and experiencing the vampire’s bite, having been shortly preceded by a sweet kiss—

Newt buried his burning face between his legs.

The vampire —  _Credence_  — had fed from him.

Not that Newt had minded, of course. He had offered his blood freely. If he remembered correctly, it had taken more convincing on Newt’s end to have the vampire feed upon him than the other way around.

When he had been a little boy, Cordelia had taught him to never allow a guest to leave his home tired and hungry. It was the host’s duty to always provide food and shelter to whomever needed it, no matter the circumstances.

Newt had taken his Mother’s wisdom to heart.

And he most certainly wasn’t going to change now just because his guest happened to feed off human blood instead of turkey.

Of course, Newt had been a little nervous at first. It wasn’t every day that he welcomed a vampire into his home; but that was to be expected.

What he hadn’t expected were the  _memories._

One of a stern-faced woman striking his hands over and over and over again with a leather switch. One where he stood in the middle of a rioting crowd, frozen stiff, watching a young woman screaming as she was burned at the stake. One where he’d been forced to bury an elderly man at a crossroads, a wooden stake thrust into his heart and a stone stuck between his teeth.

One where he’d watched a child, blonde-haired and fair-skinned, running feverish with plague.

And one where he’d stumbled across an injured beggar and offered a helping hand—

Newt wiped the tears from his eyes.

He cast his gaze upon the dozing vampire and, ever so slowly, crawled beside him.

Hair blacker than a moonless night enshrouded his bloodless face, the only color upon his skin being the even darker lashes casting shadows across his marble cheek. High-arched cheekbones sliced across his face and his jaw was so sharp that it contrasted beautifully with the gentle slope of his nose and curved lips.

Soft and hard. Predator and prey. Man and vampire.

Fearsome in the power he possessed yet so achingly human of heart that Newt couldn’t help himself but to be drawn to him, much like a moth to a flame. He reached out, but hesitated before his fingers could make contact.

Credence was a painter’s dream.

A veritable Adonis in possession of the beauty of Aphrodite and the tragedy of Hephaestus. Credence was the muse that so many artists had searched the world for and here he was, lounging in Newt’s bed.

Newt sucked in a breath and touched him.

Skin colder than ice and smoother than silk. A texture he had never dreamed of and could never describe, not accurately. Newt marveled at Credence and followed the curves of his cheek to the corner of his lips, where he carefully pulled—

Fangs.

Sharp, pointed _fangs._

Okay, he didn’t know what else he was expecting.

This was fine. This was alright. An actual, honest-to-God vampire was sleeping in his bed. A vampire who had fed from him and kissed him and cried into his shoulder.

And here  _Newt was touching him freely._

He averted his gaze and carefully lifted Credence’s hand into his. Adamant claws curled at the tips. Scars like lightning strikes marred his palms. Newt ran his thumb down the middle, following the jagged line—

“Are you afraid?”

Dark eyes met green.

“No.”

Credence frowned, “Fool.”

Newt paid him no attention and returned to what he was doing, tracing down each of Credence’s fingers and over his wrist. The scars disappeared underneath his sleeves, but Newt suspected that they didn’t end there.

“How did you get these?” he inquired.

Fingers flexed into claws.

“Forgotten what I am already?”

“No, not those,” Newt tapped a silvery line stretching from thumb to forefinger, “These.”

Credence fell quiet.

The vampire leaned up with all-too-human slowness, every movement deliberate and calculated so as to not cause alarm. Credence thoughtfully cast his gaze down between them; yet, he still allowed his cold hand to rest in his even as he sat cross-legged across from Newt.

“I think… this is the first time anyone has asked me that question.”

Newt winced and cursed his inability to start a normal conversation. Had to go straight to think he was sensitive about, didn’t he? Stupid, stupid stupid—

“I’m sorry—” he began, but Credence only shook his head.

“No, it’s… fine,” Credence smiled a little and yet… that overwhelming sadness in his eyes that Newt had been enraptured with from the very first moment they’d met, grew.

“My Mother used to—,” he swallowed, “This was back when I was human, you see. Things were handled differently back then. And Mother used to… punish me whenever I—”

Credence looked away.

“Whenever I displeased her.”

A rueful tone.

“I displeased her a lot.”

Newt thought about the stern-faced woman. The sting of the leather switch.

Credence sharply retracted his hand.

“How did you do that?”

Newt looked at him, puzzled.

“Do what?”

“You just—” Credence leaned forward and touched Newt’s temple, searching.

For what? Newt didn’t know.

“You mean to say that you didn’t—”

A massive wave of confused curiosity and agitation crashed over Newt, filling up his lungs with overwhelming emotion, but somehow he knew… it wasn’t coming from  _him._  

He didn’t know how he knew. Just like no one could really explain that curious gut feeling the pulled them in one direction at a crossroads instead of the other; and yet, it was there nonetheless.

A loud squeak in his ear interrupted his thoughts.

Bugger. That’s right, he still needed to feed—

“Pickett,” Credence cast his gaze upwards.

Newt’s breath caught in his throat.

_How did he know that; How did I know that?_

_Wait, who said that; Where is that voice coming from?_

_What’s happening to me; What’s going on?_

“Can I feel—” Newt started.

“Can I hear—” Credence began.

“Your thoughts?” They finished simultaneously.

They flinched backwards and leaned towards each other seconds after, drawn together like the tides of the sea to the moon above. Credence covered his mouth. Newt’s hung open and he pinched the inside of his palm to wake himself from this dream.

“Ow,” Credence looked down at his hand, surprised.

“Fascinating,” Newt breathed.

He jumped to his feet, rapidly theorizing underneath his breath. Griffin had always chastised him for such eccentricities, but his Father wasn’t exactly here to scold him for mumbling, now was he?

“I’ve heard of the sire-fledgling dynamic, but am I—?” Newt ran his tongue over his teeth, “No, not pointy. I’m still— oh bugger, how does that explain all this then? You feel what I feel. I see what you see. I wonder… does that mean it works in the opposite direction?”

Newt pivoted excitedly on his feet.

“Quickly, slap your face.”

Credence wrinkled his nose.

“I’d rather not.”

“Ah well, no matter. There’s plenty of time to experiment later,” Newt hopped back on board of his runaway train of thought, “If I’m still human, how does this explain anything? Think, Newt, think—yes, think! You can hear my thoughts and I can hear yours.”

“Regrettably.”

“Oh hush,” Newt paced back and forth, “I saw your memories last night too. Curious. Does that mean that you—”

“Your brother’s name is Theseus,” Credence mumbled out an answer, “And you wet the bed until you were 10.”

“Ah, yes,” he blushed, “Well, I suppose that settles that.”

Newt plopped down in the middle of the bedroom, cheeks burning and tapping his forehead with the back of his thumb.

He had to think about this. Start from the very beginning.

He and Credence were connected. To what extent? Of that, Newt was uncertain; however, it was deep enough that their memories were now inexorably entwined and, if they so desired, they could hear and feel whatever the other person was feeling.

Fate’s red strings had tied them together, bounded them in blood.

Blood.

Newt thought he had imagined it. It couldn’t have happened, couldn’t have been possible.

But the impossible was just whatever remained unexplained, wasn’t it?

And if that was the case…

And if that was the case and Newt _had_ seen himself, all splotched red and undignified, through Credence’s eyes last evening… then that had to be the first instance of their connection. And if that was the first instance of their connection, then what had directly preceded it was what had bound them to each other.

Newt froze, the back of his thumb now pressed against his lips.

_I, Credence Barebone, have become yours._

Those binding words echoed through his head, traveling down that vast expanse of scarlet thread between their hearts and  _tugged_.

Credence jolted forward with a surprised shout.

Invisible hands pulled him closer and closer until he collapsed onto bended knee before Newt, his wide-eyed gaze forced to the floorboards.

Kneeling like a knight to a king.

Or perhaps something more?

_And you have become mine, Newt Scamander._

“I didn’t mean to,” Credence trembled, his voice soft and… afraid, “I didn’t know. Had I the slightest inclination that I was—”

His lower lip trembled.

“I would have never condemned you to me,” he whispered, “I’m so sorry. You deserve more than this.”

No matter how it seemed to present itself, this wasn’t any old master-servant relationship. Just like how it wasn’t one of predator and prey, hunter and hunted.

This was something far deeper than that. Something ancient and divine. An irrevocable binding of not just the mind, but of the heart and soul. They were two people joined, in sickness and in health,  _till death do they part._

“My God,” Newt covered his mouth.

Credence flinched.

“You’ve… agreed to protect me, as I have agreed to protect you,” he said softly, “You didn’t know?”

“No. I had no idea,” Credence hung his head even lower, his hands trembling, “I’ve never done this before.”

Newt knew that what he said was true, felt the verity of it in his heart.

“I thought familiars belonged to witches.”

“ _I’m not a witch_.”

“I never you said you were,” Newt soothed, “Credence, could you… If you wouldn’t mind, could you… look at me?”

He did.

Panic and confusion swirled within those enchanting eyes of his.

This was no monster. This was just a lost boy who had lived a hundred years in frightened solitude, searching for answers and figuring out how to survive all by himself. Credence didn’t understand any of this as much as Newt did. He was scared of himself, even more scared of the world.

He had never even left _Florence_ before.

Newt leaned forward.

“Why did you kiss me?”

Credence froze.

“It—It seemed appropriate at the time,” he whispered like a sinner in a confessional, “Because I— I wanted to. And when I looked at you, I felt—”

Credence hesitated.

“I felt like I was home. I’m sorry.”

Newt touched his cheek.

“Don’t be,” he pressed his lips against his forehead.

Credence’s breath hitched.

“We’re going to figure this out together,” Newt vowed right then and there, determined to remain by Credence’s side not because he had to, but because he wanted to be, “You and I? We’re going to face this strange and unusual world hand-in-hand. Together. I’m not leaving you.”

“It’s not like you have a choice,” Credence’s lower lip quivered.

“I have a choice,” Newt affirmed and took his hand into his, “And I’m choosing you.”

“Newt—”

“You’re not alone anymore, Credence.”

Scarlet tears slid down his cheeks, his scarred hands tightening around Newt’s. Credence opened his mouth to say something, even though Newt already knew that he was at a loss for words.

But Pickett decided to squeak loudly right then and there.

“Oh hush, you,” Newt wrinkled his nose and rose to his feet, “I’ll feed you now, don’t you fret. No need to work yourself up like that.”

Pickett pulled at his hair, poking his head down over his forehead so that he could look straight into Newt’s eyes as he squeaked once again, annoyed.

“Rude.”

Newt went to head towards the staircase, but halted as soon as he took the first step.

Pickett’s impatient chittering resumed; however, Newt figured that the glutinous, overly pampered bat could wait just a moment longer.

He pivoted on his heel and leaned down.

“Credence.”

Newt stretched out his hand, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Would you like to come with me?”

Credence stared at him, unmoving.

A moment passed and Newt feared that he wouldn’t respond. Which was perfectly fine, of course. It was his decision to make. He didn’t have to accompany him if he wished otherwise but—

Credence’s hand slipped into his.

And suddenly, everything seemed like it would be alright.

“I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who has time to review chapters for consistency and whatnot? We die like men.  
> (And by that I mean I'll re-review this in the morning to make sure it flows okay ahaha I'm just too tired rn and I wanted to get this out there for y'all <3 <3 <3 )
> 
> ANYWAYS, please leave your comments and constructive criticisms below! They are the sustenance in which I thrive upon. 
> 
> If you would like to see more crewt content and fic updates, or if you just want to chat with me, I'm darthpricklypear on Tumblr!


	4. Vampires Don't Speak Bat

Credence lazed on the studio sofa.

One-by-one, he kicked off his shoes and plopped up his feet. Dirtied jars and glass teacups cluttered the nearby side-table and Credence found himself thoroughly occupied with swirling around the brushes inside. He liked the pull of the murky water, how the pigment disappeared. He liked the simpleness, the mindlessness of the action. He liked not having to think.

He laid on his stomach, his cheek pressed against the sofa, and just… relaxed.

It might have been a trope. If he’d found himself a couple hundred years in the future and literate, he would’ve recognized that the pampered and spoiled vampire lazing about whilst their dedicated human worked was grossly overdone. 

But Credence was not in the future. He was not literate. He didn’t laze or dawdle. And he most certainly didn’t consider himself pampered or spoiled. 

He was content.

And that was fact.

The afternoon light seeped in through the window behind him, prickling his toes. He pulled them off the ledge.

“Slowly, Pickett. Slowly.”

Credence turned his head.

It was funny, if not oddly disturbing, just how quickly Newt had become accustomed to their little… predicament. To think that it’d only been yesterday that Credence had crashed through his window, accidentally bonded them together in some strange sort of vampiric ritual that neither of them knew anything about, and sealed it all with a kiss. It felt like a lifetime ago. 

And maybe it was.

“Pickett— ouch!” Newt hissed, sharply retracting his hand, “That’s my finger! What has gotten into you? You’re acting like you’re starving.”

The scent of blood filled the air.

But for the first time in forever, his throat didn’t burn.

“Maybe he is,” Credence offered his hand, “Allow me.”

Newt shifted on the floor, legs tucked neatly underneath him and the opened jar of dead mosquitos balanced on his lap, and slipped the back of his hand into Credence’s waiting palm. Pickett squeaked loudly from Newt’s shoulder.

Credence lifted Newt’s hand to lips.

A steady heartbeat pulsed through the room.

Going faster.

And faster.

Until it all but stopped when Credence slipped Newt’s bleeding finger into his mouth. 

A second later, it was over.

“There,” Credence said, sitting up on the sofa now and stretching his arms over his head, “As I was saying, maybe he’s acting like he’s starving is because he feels like he’s—“

Newt was blushing.

He wasn’t blushing before.

The dead mosquito jar laid on the floor, having apparently tumbled from his lap. Pickett kept trying to stick his head inside. Failing miserably, but still trying. And Newt…

Newt was staring up at him, wide-eyed, and blushing.

“Is there something on my face?”

Newt scrambled to his feet.

Having him standing there, staring down into his eyes with cheeks all aflush, now made Credence’s own face feel suddenly hot. Or was it just their connection? Feeding their heart-quickening nervousness, their shyness and confusion, their love-at-first-bite attraction through the loop until all their feelings crashed into each other into one chaotic, indistinguishable mess? Who knew where ones thoughts ended and the others began?

“You just—,” Newt pressed his hand against his mouth, his _healed_ hand, “With your tongue—”

“O-oh.”

My, what lovely hardwood floors.

“My saliva— it— it closes wounds,” he managed to squeak out, unable to face him a second longer. 

Why did he do that? Acting without thinking.

Impulsiveness meant greater risk of discovery. Discovery meant witch hunts. And witch hunts meant—

His heart burned.

“I’m sorry.”

“Credence.”

Newt’s thin fingers swept behind his ear, gently lifting his head. Their eyes met, wide and mirrored to the point where Credence couldn’t tell whether he was staring into emerald green or ruby red. A stuttering breath escaped his lips.

A sharp flash. A question. A whisper.

Unspoken, but not unheard.

Credence nodded.

Newt caressed his cheek, soft and warm and oh so very alive. Credence found himself leaning into his touch. Everything seemed brighter. Everything seemed warmer, clearer even. It was if magic saturated the air, filling up his lungs and arteries which ran with the blood of the very man who presently touched him. If this was what it felt like to be hypnotized, than Credence could imagine no better bliss than this.

That was, until Newt hooked his fingers around the corner of his mouth and pulled.

His fangs glinted in the sunlight.

Well, there went the moment.

“They’re beautiful, you know.”

_You don’t have to lie to me to make me feel better._

Newt’s thumb ran across his teeth, testing the sharpness.

“You know I’m not.”

He was right.

“So,” Newt leaned back, folding his hands together, “What else can you do?”

Credence quirked a brow.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean,” Newt repeated, teasing, “Your skin is pale white and ice cold. You’re fast—faster than I can keep track of, and strong. You can heal bleeding fingers. You can climb up walls, turn into bats, and prove with just a smile that there’s a beauty that walks the Earth that rivals Aphrodite herself.”

Newt slid onto the sofa beside him and laid back, plopping his head down into Credence’s lap.

“Are you telling me that’s all?”

Credence raised his hand, catching a spot of sunlight. It stung a bit, but otherwise did nothing to him.

“No,” he answered softly, “It’s not.”

“Then tell me,” Newt grinned and gestured to Pickett, still valiantly trying to stick his head through the glass jar of dead mosquitos, “Can you talk to him?”

Credence snorted.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You can turn into a colony of bats, right?” Newt clarified, reasoning, “Does that mean you can… understand him?”

Credence couldn’t help himself; he laughed. 

He pressed his hand against his mouth and shook his head, his shoulders trembling from mirth.

“What—Whatever gave you the idea that I could do that?”

“I mean,” Newt’s cheeks turned red, “You can talk to me, can’t you?”

“Yes, but the difference between talking to you in this form and talking to Pickett when I’m in another is that I was human once. I learned how to speak and talk like a human. I admit, the language has changed a little bit over the century, but nothing that I couldn’t learn through observation,” Credence then teased, “I wasn’t born a bat. I’ve only been able to turn into them within the past 30 or 40 years.”

He started laughing again.

“Speaking their language is like if I tried speaking Spanish after hearing a passing conversation.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“I’m fairly certain I called someone’s mother some pretty unkind words once.”

Newt joined him in his laughter and Credence’s undead heart flipped.

“I can transform into other creatures too, not just bats,” he continued, “I turn into them on impulse, when I’m surprised or caught off guard. But I can turn into rats too. Spiders. Sometimes a dog or a wolf if I focus hard enough. Turning into mist though… that’s my favorite.”

“Mist?” Newt repeated, “Why mist?”

“Lets me travel quickly and quietly, without leaving a trace,” Credence answered, “People are always on the lookout for pests. Always chasing them away with a broom, their shoes, whatever they have on hand. You don’t exactly find people trying to shoo away the fog.”

His fingers entangled themselves in Newt’s hair of their own accord.

“Speaking of, did you know that I can control the weather?”

“So, that rainstorm was your doing?”

“Not every meteorological incident can be attributed to me,” Credence said, “You can paint. Does that mean you’re responsible for every painting in the world?”

“Fair point,” Newt hummed, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek against his stomach, “So, is that it?”

“I’m stronger than I was when I was human. I can endure more than you ever could. I can track even the trickiest scents. I can see in the dark. I can hear a butterfly fluttering all the way in the mountains. And I can—” he stopped.

Newt’s eyes slowly slid back open.

“Credence?”

“I can hypnotize people to my will,” he whispered, “I can make anyone do whatever I want. I can make them forget they ever saw me…. I was going to do the same to you until I—I think there’s only two people I know for certain that know I exist: you and the Man in Black.”

Sadness filled his chest; but for once, it wasn’t his own. 

“That sounds… so lonely,” Newt said so quietly that, were he human, he might have missed it.

“Everything you say always seems to paint me in a positive light,” Credence took a strand of Newt’s hair between his fingers and twirled it around, “If not sympathetic. That’s one of the things that I like about you.”

Amusement replaced the sadness.

“So you like me?”

Credence’s fingers froze. 

No. No. No. No. He couldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t be doing this.

He didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of such… affections, to be lazing in the sun with his—paramour, companion, person—laying on his lap, looking up at him with the same regard as one would give the Almighty. Newt might not see him as a monster. It didn’t mean that Credence didn’t see himself as one.

“Newt… I can do many great and wonderful things, but I’m a weak and pathetic creature first and foremost. A foul beast governed by their wickedest compulsions,” Credence straightened, “Sunlight inhibits my powers. It slows me until I’m all but human.”

He looked away.

“Garlic is suffocating. It clouds my senses and weakens me until I’m as helpless as a newborn babe. I cast no reflection. And when I need to feed,” his tongue ran over his teeth, “It burns.”

“Credence—” Newt sat up.

“Newt, I have known hunger and starvation as intimately as you would know a lover back when I was alive. Back when I was human,” he balled his hands into fists, “This is worse. It is as if… instead of trapping my soul in Hell for eternal damnation, Hell has been trapped inside my soul. I can feel it inside me. Always. Even now I—”

Credence swallowed.

“The only thing that makes it stop, that makes it somewhat bearable, is to spill blood. A nightly sacrifice made over and over and over again. I’ve tried resisting it. I’ve tried to not give in… But instead of controlling the demon, somehow it ends up controlling me,” he looked straight into Newt’s eyes, “I’ve killed people. Men. Women. Children. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. But I still did it.”

Newt remained silent for what felt like a century.

And Credence should know.

He’d lived through one.

“Show me.”

Newt slipped his hand into his, raising it between them and repeating, “Show me.”

“I’m afraid to,” Credence whispered.

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to look at me in any other way than you do now.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t know that,” he shook his head, “You can’t.”

“Credence,” Newt still squeezed his hand though, “I won’t.”

Credence could feel his truth, the conviction in his words. But that didn’t mean that Credence didn’t feel doubt. Because what was said in truth before being shown something so horrible, so horrifying that it was beyond belief, didn’t mean that disgust and revulsion were no longer a possibility.

And yet…

He showed him.

He showed him everything hateful about himself. The death. The hunger. The beast lurking inside, waiting for the perfect opportunity — for a moment of weakness— to finally become untethered.

The hairs on his arm bristled.

“You’re scared,” Credence withdrew his hand; but no comfort came from this unspoken ‘ _I told you so._ ’

“Y—yes.”

“I warned you.”

“I know,” Newt’s hands slipped behind his ears once more and gently raised his face to meet his, ruby red reflected in emerald green, “But I’m not scared _of_ you.”

“Then what are you scared of?” Credence whispered.

“I’m scared _for_ you,” he said softly, “Of the fear that looms over you every waking moment.”

Credence rested his hands over his.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“I think that’s more for me to decide, now, isn’t it?” Newt smiled and kissed his forehead, which made Credence want to burst out into tears right then, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For trusting me.”

Credence had gone without trusting anyone, not even himself, for over a century. How was it that he’d come to trust a clumsy painter with _everything_ in a matter of hours? And yet… it felt right. Fate had waved her mighty hand and given back the very soul he had lost.

Credence leaned forward.

Newt’s heart thumped. It pounded against Credence’s ears, beating in his chest and aching with some indescribable emotion as if it were his own heart. Credence brushed his claws across his cheek. He could pass forever in this moment.

Credence slumped forward and wrapped his arms around Newt’s shoulders. For once in his very long, he felt safe.

“If you see the Man in Black,” he muttered, “I want you to run. Run and never look back.”

Newt stiffened.

“When I was… feeding last night, he found me. Vampire hunters are monsters, Newt. Don’t underestimate them,” Credence squeezed him tightly, “He was foreign. German, I think. I’m not too sure. But I know what he was and he knows what I am. I can’t ever go back there. Ever. And if he knows you’re protecting me…”

“I don’t understand,” Newt wrapped his arms around his back and pressing his cheek into his neck, “Can’t you just hypnotize him?”

A valid question.

“Yes,” he answered, “But that’s not the problem. You see, Newt… vampire hunters never work alone. Never. If they’re not already traveling in a group, then they’re reporting back to their superiors. And they have safeguards. So many safeguards. If one of them happens to go missing… they know exactly where to go and where _to hunt_.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Okay,” Newt ran his hand through Credence’s hair, “If he knows you’re here, do you think that he’ll try to find you?”

“Yes.”

“Which is why you’re here.”

“It’s closer than what I’d prefer,” Credence admitted, “But I’m stuck with you now.”

Newt pulled back and teased, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Credence raised a brow.

“Oh, it’s absolute torture,” he drawled, “Woe is me.”

“Oh hush,” Newt stood up and plucked Pickett off the floor, setting the grumpy bat upon his shoulder despite his squeaking protests, “In any case, I should probably go about my usual routine then. If I’m to keep you secret, that is. Hmm, probably overdue for a market run…”

He looked back over his shoulder and held out his hand.

Credence took it.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Newt squeezed, “No matter what happens, Credence, I’ll be there to protect you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BEEN A COUPLE MONTHS, BUT I'M BACK Y'ALL.
> 
> So many things have happened. I've moved across the country. I got a new job. I got a new cat -- whom I'm just about to take to her second vet appointment ever in just a couple of minutes. I'll update this chapter notes section when I get back, but in the meantime, ENJOY ! ! !


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